Small Steps
by Authors Tune
Summary: A one-shot that explores Arizona learning to receive support


**AN**: The characters and show do not belong to me.

No spoilers, timeline insignificant. :-)

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><p>Sometimes, it's difficult for me to find the words. It's like they disappear as soon as the adrenalin surfaces, wrapped up in my anxiety until they slip to the back of my throat and I'm forced to swallow heavily so they tumble down my oesophagus. And I hate it. I hate that I am standing in front of the only woman I have ever loved so close to completely, and my insecurities are betraying me.<p>

I can see that she is panicking; her eyes wide and fixated on me. She told me once that she's scared, scared that I'll feel so overwhelmed and lost, that I'll disappear again. _If I close my eyes, I might open them to find you gone._ She's doing it now, staring at me, searching desperately for my eyes in an effort to keep me with her. The invisible ties that hold me to her, to this apartment – this life.

The back of her fingers brush against my cheek and I feel the wetness spread across my skin. She doesn't know why I'm standing in the middle of the kitchen, trembling and crying, with a full moon casting shadows across the floor. "Talk to me," she whispers, her own hand shaking slightly as her fingers fumble down my neck and come to rest, draped over my clavicle. She doesn't know where to place her hand; the confident woman I love is suddenly hesitant when it comes to comforting me. She's been pushed away so many times; it must be hard to keep trying. I need her to keep trying.

I lick my lips and the inside of my mouth; all of my saliva seems to have been used to swallow my words; the articulation that professionally, I'm so proud of. Two sides of the same coin; life can be so cruel. "I'm sorry," I answer and I have to clench my teeth to stop my face from crumbling and a sob escaping through my pursed lips.

She exhales loudly and I can read the frustration all over her face. She doesn't understand my fear; the irrational nagging feeling that all you have can disappear in an instance. That the very people you trust with everything you are can suddenly stand up and walk away; they disappear into a world that you can't access. She's such an open book, her heart tied haphazardly to her sleeve, her emotions ready for showing to the world. If she's angry, the rant tumbles out in a hybrid monologue of English and Spanish. Similarly, if she's upset, then the tears aren't saved for the darkness of night, witnessed only by a soft duck down pillow.

She retracts her hand and then moves a step closer, both palms coming to rest on my hips. She's more comfortable here, her thumbs stroking at the bare skin, barely exposed by the hem of my cotton shirt. I'm tempted to crush her lips with mine; to tear hastily at her clothes until they lay discarded on the floor; distraction is quite the tool. But I don't. I let Calliope touch me in a way that is familiar, though my glance at her eyes indicates the usual sexual intention is far removed as her eyes glass with surfacing emotion. "It's like I don't know how to help you," she states, her usual strong voice suddenly timid, "how to support you, like you support me."

I nod my understanding and she reads my distress, my guilt; it mixes fluidly with hers. "It's not you," I state, although even I realise their inadequacy. She doesn't comment or challenge the weak condolence that I offer and she moves to press our foreheads together before pressing her cheek to mine. I almost freeze, closing my eyes and inhaling her scent, savouring the brief moment of complete comfort from almost being held protectively in her arms. Her fingers squeeze at my hips and I feel her soft breath against my ear. "I want you to know that I love you," she says softly in a rush of hot air.

Fresh tears tumble without warning from my eyes and I know she can feel my body shaking slightly. I nod. I don't know what else to do and the longer I stay in a wordless state, the more I feel trapped. I don't understand why the terms and phrases can't roll unfiltered from my mouth, why I can't angrily share my day and then cry heavily into my beautiful partner's shoulder. My complexities even overwhelm me. "Don't think that I don't love you…" I hoarsely gasp, trailing off quietly and I feel her shaking her head, our cheeks softly touching.

"Shhhh," she soothes gently and I'm reminded at her own complexities. How she manages to tread such a precarious line between confident strength and the tenderest of feminine and maternal protection. "Your turn, Arizona. For once. It's your turn." Her words are delivered slowly and deliberately; and I'm acutely aware of her trying to make me believe them. How she wants to create a sense of safety for me with her presence and her words.

I can feel myself crumbling; the signs that I've been aware of before are starting to surface. My legs feel weak and detached; my chest tight and tears grating at my eyelids. Only each time before I've been alone – I've been curled up on the floor of a steaming shower or in the corner of a locked and deserted room. She's slowly breaking down my defences and forcing herself into my carefully protected world. The vulnerability petrifies me.

I know that I need to offer an explanation. Although the world of film suggest otherwise, that people can just fall apart without a single word and no one thinks anything of it. Fiction can be so unrealistic; reality demands answers for we fear the consequences of not knowing. We fear betrayal and loss, shame and hurt. We fear it for ourselves and for others; to know, alleviates our fears. "I need to…" I trail off, drawing in a slow uneven breath. She waits patiently, her lips unmoving against my temple, scared no doubt of losing the moment of potential disclosure. "I just, I have to show you."

She draws back slowly, hands still unmoving against my skin and searches my eyes in confusion. I lose the connection, knowing that shame is probably flashing across my face. Although the words remain hidden, to a trained eye, the emotion is strikingly obvious. "Show me what?" she asks softly, and I painfully meet her eyes. I want to say _easy, don't push me Callie _and I will my eyes to portray what I can't express verbally. She nods her understanding and I wonder briefly if I had finally uttered words that meant something more.

I reach to my chest and undo my top button and I can hear the bewilderment on Calliope's breath. She doesn't move her hands and both thumbs are tenderly stroking my skin; I'm so grateful for their presence. My tears have stopped, though I know they'll flood my face soon enough. I'm so patterned, so habitual; so predictable to myself. It's others that I fail to share myself with that remain oblivious.

Six buttons are undone and my shirt falls open only an inch. I glance up to look at her and she's staring expectantly at me, her mouth slightly ajar and her forehead perplexedly creased. Shrugging my shoulders until the shirt falls down my arms and I pull at my sleeves until it's discarded on the floor, hearing the gasps from Callie as I focus on letting the piece of clothing fall from my body. "What happened?" she asks so softly that I'm not sure I really heard it, as her tender fingers start to trail across my skin. I don't respond at first, searching my mind as if the perfect articulation will appear in an apparition. "You were assaulted?" she eventually asks me, everything about her still so gentle and controlled.

I'm good with questions that require only a negative or affirmative gesture. It's not the withholding of information that I struggle with; it's not about wanting to be a closed book. It's about not knowing how to share the important information with those I love. So I nod and swallow against my dry throat. "Yeah," I eventually utter, looking down my body to witness Callie fingering each red mark, each area of broken skin and each bruise that is progressively appearing. She leaves my bra-covered breasts til last, though I know she can see the finger marks that disappear beneath the material.

"Arizona…" she whispers and doesn't wipe away the tear that tracks down her left cheek and slips beneath her jaw line.

"I'm okay," I offer quickly and she shakes her head at me, strongly this time. "I mean, I'm okay. I've been checked out."

"When did this happen?" Her fingers aren't leaving my skin, she searching every piece of my exposed body, searching for evidence or confirmation that I'm still intact.

I shrug my shoulders; I know that this will hurt her. My avoidance will hurt her. "Last night," I respond slowly and I feel her tense ever so slightly before she relaxes her hands again. "I didn't…I didn't want to wake you Calliope."

She seems to process my words, intently staring at my abdomen and chest. "At work?" I nod again; perhaps the details will come later. The images continue to haunt my mind of being held in the corner of the darkened Paediatric Unit, the towering male roughly forcing his hands against my body. "Arizona," she says, repeating my name again with such care.

"I'm okay," I repeat again, but my cracking voice removes the intent. I don't want Callie to think I'm weak and unable to care for myself; I don't want her to think that I'm needy. But my breaking tone contradicts my irrational self-talk.

She reaches up to gently press the pads of her fingers under my chin, pulling my face up to meet her eyes. I know she's looking for answers, searching my expression for something more than I'm offering. I know, because I would do the same. "This…ummm," she looks back to my chest before trying again to connect with me. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" she rephrases quietly and my eyes flash recognition, as I realise she's fearful of more than my physical safety.

I shake my head quickly, alleviating her suddenly heightened state. "Just my back, that's all. There was nothing else." She almost smiles, a tiny twitch of her lips as she exhales heavily.

"What can I do?"

I want to frantically plead with her to hold me, to wrap her arms around me and squeeze me tightly until I believe that I'm safe. To make me forget for just a few moments the minutes last night, where I felt fearful for my life and safety. I want to fall apart for once and not care about the consequences. I want disappear from the world, but not from her. Not from Calliope.

My face must be exhibiting a kaleidoscope of emotion as I am suddenly aware of my need to provide an answer, she is staring intently at me, her eyes narrowed. I shrug though, like an uncomfortable adolescent who is yet to learn communication skills. I wish that Callie would just know, that she would do what she has been doing, reading my every thought and feeling. I give her a pitiful, tearful look and chew at my lower lip.

Her hands run up my arms and over my shoulders, and I'm suddenly aware that the discomfort and hesitation from earlier is gone. Her movements are purposeful and explicitly gentle. She cups my face and smiles, leaning forward and pressing her lips to mine in the most incredibly soft kiss. She lingers only a second before leaning back; the platonic kiss impressively communicative. "Just ask me," she whispers though I shake my head without even thinking. She smiles, forehead pressed to mine. "Trust me."

I turn my face slightly, squeezing my eyes shut and drawing in a shaky breath. "Just a hug…" I whisper quickly so the words are out and unable to be retracted. She bundles me into her arms, my body moulding into hers with my face pressed tightly to the nape of her neck. My tears are staining her skin and my body is shaking so hard that she has to change her grip to hold me upright. It's almost as if I'm limp against her and the definition of where Calliope ends and I start is blurred. And then I'm gone, my consciousness drifting away. All the walls and barriers I have erected are momentarily forgotten; my mind is blank and without a rush of fears and apprehension; insecurities fail to be important and for just a moment, nothing else matters.

I've never been to a place where I just exist, without a constant barrage of cognition. Everything I am, in this moment, is enough.

I simply am.

_Fin_

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><p>All feedback, including constructive criticism is welcomed and enjoyed.<p>

Cheers, Author's Tune


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